


Lone Wolf

by floweryhanzo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brotherhood, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweryhanzo/pseuds/floweryhanzo
Summary: It has been twenty years and one world war since Hanzo last saw his brother. It takes an assassination contract to bring them together again.





	Lone Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> You know what I really like? The Lone Wolf skin. You know what I really hate? Happiness, apparently.
> 
> I brought my two contradicting passions together and this hellspawn happened. I'm gonna call my therapist.

* * *

 

* * *

 

The silence of this place after sunset seems unbreakable, and if not for the gentle wind in the trees surrounding the house, it would be perfect. Hanzo slides the door closed behind his back and stands there on the paved ground for a moment, his eyes taking in the black profile of the mountain growing tall before him, blocking out the horizon. Its slopes are thick with woods, as are those of the mountain the house stands on; for miles upon miles around him, there is more nature and quiet than there is civilization. He prefers it that way. His gaze drops towards the black stone under his feet as he lets his yukata slide off his shoulders. Against his bare skin, the mountain air always feels chilly; he barely acknowledges it as he folds his clothes and puts them down before stepping further away from the doorway. He walks the short path to the edge of the water and lowers himself in it. Steam from the hot spring rises against the darkening scenery as he sinks down and wets his long hair, sliding his fingers through it to make sure there’s no dry spot left. Then he surfaces again and rests his body against the spring’s walls, his body’s weight pressing against the stone molded into the shape of a bench. He lets his head bend back down until he can see the sky above: it’s a clear night, but there’s no moon to be seen, so despite the pale light cast by the million stars, the land underneath is growing ever blacker in the corners of his vision.

The lights hovering above their platforms in the yard begin to glow dimly as he bathes. They illuminate the old house, its white walls and its dark roofs, and their reflections play upon the black water of the onsen around him. He looks down at his body, the twisted vision of his hands and legs underneath the surface, and he stretches his legs out, then pulls them back in just to feel the weight of the water over them as they move. From many places, his skin’s marked with scars, some from private confrontations, some from the war. Even now he can feel them aching. Sometimes, he thinks he can feel them better now than he did a few years ago - that the pain is perhaps growing stronger with age, like his body’s regressing to relive its memories as its strength begins to wane. Oddly enough, even though it’s been nearly eight years since the second omnic war ended, it feels as if those wounds give him more headache than the rest, even those that aren’t as old now. Hanzo traces his fingers over a scar on his thigh and closes his eyes when another gentle breeze runs across the lawn and back into the forest like a bouncing deer.

He doesn’t know exactly how long he’s spent in the water when a quiet buzzing sound draws him back from his thoughts. He stirs, a frown of surprise on his features; he doesn’t get a call very often these days. He peers back at the yukata, neatly folded with his caller beside it, and the blue light emanating from it vibrates softly against the darkness behind it.

Very well, he thinks, his body pliant as he pulls up from the hot spring. Picking up the communications device, he sits down on the bench, his body trickling water onto the worn wood beneath him. To get his number, one has to go deep underground and know exactly what to look for. It’s only used for one purpose: to offer a contract. Hanzo opens the message, pushing his wet hair behind his ears, and reads it.

_Message sent to Comms Device from Temporary Sender (no ID), 2096/05/18 23:35_  
Content: [Shimada-sama,  
with respect I would kindly request a meeting to negotiate.  
My schedule holds an opening on Thursday at 3pm. I would like to meet in my location near Tokyo at the Purple Flower teahouse then; as per your terms, I will identify myself with a cherry blossom.  
If this date and time suits you or you do not wish to meet with me, you do not have to respond to this message. If you wish to meet but the time does not suit you, I am open to any other date more fitting to you.]

The message is unsigned and cannot be sourced - Hanzo looks it over twice before letting out a soft breath. Then, he stands up once more, takes his towel and runs it through his hair; his hands still for a moment as he watches the shape of a bird cross the yard at full speed, spooked by something mundane like a fox in the forest.

It’s been months since he last took a life.

 

* * *

 

The customer is well-dressed in a kimono. He’s foreign, perhaps Egyptian, but seems well-adjusted in his environment which makes Hanzo doubt he’s in Japan for the first time. His hair is coal black and combed back with care, and on his chest, he wears a pin depicting a cherry flower. Hanzo has a flower from Hanamura on his own clothes, and as their eyes meet, the customer smiles at him and nods. He settles beside the table opposite from Hanzo and, although neither of them has exchanged greetings by the time they’re served, orders them both some sake.

”I hope it’s not too early to drink,” he says with a relaxed smile, ”Business tends to leave me thirsty.”

Hanzo shakes his head almost unnoticeably, and the customer nods again, seeming satisfied. It takes them still a while after the drinks have arrived to speak again, but once the customer begins, he doesn’t waste time with small talk.

”I’m in a difficult situation, my friend,” he says, ”and I believe that you are the best party I could turn to for help. The price does not matter; I hope you understand that I’m willing to pay anything for the fulfillment of my request.”

”I will judge your request first before we speak of arrangements,” Hanzo tells him shortly, picking up his drink and sipping it, his eyes firm upon the customer’s as he does so.

”Of course. Well, from what I understand, you may think the level of challenge required here is less than what you would usually be contracted for, but I need this done quietly and I need this done cleanly, and from my research I know that you may well be the most skilled, ah, professional, that I could turn to if I wanted to keep it... low-profile.”

”Without a doubt,” Hanzo says.

”You must understand that we are not discussing any military or criminal entity here. I have made few enemies dangerous enough to warrant this kind of... neutralizing. But, in contrast to my plea for low-profile work, the name we are speaking of is quite high-profile indeed.”

”Politician?” Hanzo asks.

”No, not quite,” the customer says, his smile now a little dejected, ”A teacher, I’d rather call him.”

”A civilian?”

The customer shrugs.  
”Well, an active - but in the strictest sense, yes, he is a civilian. I hope it’s not below you.”

Hanzo sips his sake again.  
”No,” he says then, ”Provided that you have good reasons to wish him dead.”

”It gets very tedious here, my friend. This is, after all, firmly tied into politics and the omnic relations. This individual spreads dangerous propaganda, and my side would benefit from seeing his voice silenced - forever. I know you fought in the war; you’ve seen the evil first hand. The kind of a world this man preaches, it simply cannot be, and we’d all do better if he stopped spreading this confusing and painful message to the crowds who are already conflicted and lost and in pain.”

The customer follows his lead and drinks, then looks around in the teahouse for a while, appearing to merely observe its decorations and simplistic beauty. Then he turns towards Hanzo again, still smiling.

”Are you willing to take the name I bring you?” he asks.

Hanzo nods.  
”Let me hear it.”

”He calls himself Sparrow, my friend.”

 

* * *

 

Two months later, clouds envelope the mountains of Nepal everywhere Hanzo goes. The city he lands in buzzles despite the humid downpour, its streets modern and its population mixed between locals, omnics and outsiders. Not even this place, the country of origin for the Shambali movement, escapes the rippling effects of the explosive political situation of the world. Amongst the other mercenaries and peaceguards, Hanzo barely stands out with his bow strapped over his full battle armour. He steps into a bus where the only person who finds him of particular interest is a small girl who tugs the sleeve of her mother seated beside her and points at him, whispering something to her when he passes. He sits at the back, but the bus is soon full enough that he has company regardless. An old man sits beside him for four hours, through cities and countryside, until finally getting off at a stretch of a lonely road leading up to the mountains. Hanzo stays, however. He sits inside for six hours in full, watching the modernized cities turn for less advanced rural towns and villages built around ancient monasteries. In the end, the bus stops at its final destination, a town built into the mountainside itself, and he walks out of it and then out of that town with a strange fatigue in his body and mind that he doubts has much to do with the altitude.

The sun has barely gone up when he begins his climb. The unpaved road leads him up the first mountain’s slope and away from the town below, and once he’s left the last houses behind, around him opens a desolate view. There are no trees here, as barely anything taller than grass has the hardiness to grow in such conditions, but the monsoon has brought a green lushness to the ground regardless. Without the humidity, even though the rain has ceased and the clouds are breaking apart, the weather up here would be quite forgiving for his outfit, but the wetness seems to seep through the layers of Hanzo’s armour and clothes and makes his skin feel sticky even against the breathable cotton blend covering his body. Still, he knows better than to take off the wolf skin covering his neck and shoulders; the air up here will get cold soon enough. His feet keep him moving forwards towards a breaking point between two mountain tops, but after walking for two hours, he stops and sits upon a rock to bring out his GPS. It glows faintly against the noon sunlight, but he can make apart the shapes of the mountains and his own pulsing red marker in their midst. From there, he lets his eyes take to the scenery itself. How misleading it seems that his marker is even distinguishable from its surroundings on the map; here, alone surrounded by grassland and stone, he’s smaller than an ant amongst the giants. It’s hard to believe that anyone would settle here, but there are towns hidden between the mountains even here, as the Nepalese are quite like the grass of their homeland that has the willpower to reach for the sun no matter how high the mountains get. Briefly, a strange longing breaches the fatigue inside Hanzo, and he recalls his house in Japan. These mountains are very different from those that surround the solitary building he’s settled at, and in that fog of homesickness, he wonders what madness has brought him here.

Swallowing, he picks himself back up on his feet and forces himself onwards. He knows better than to question a mission he’s already accepted. This one, in truth, started years ago - he’s lingered much too long upon it already.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo’s path takes him to a village with no more than twenty, thirty buildings at most. From there, he can see the rooftops of the monastery still another hour’s walk away at least, barely visible from behind the slope. A hardened but now very lonely track begins from the town and leads towards it, and Hanzo takes to it despite the quite suspicious looks the locals here give him. He doubts most of them have seen anything like him in their entire lives - the war has hardly reached this far. It seems an oddly soothing thought, that some places in the world have not been touched by the destruction and devastation that seemed to all but consume the globe, and that a quiet village like this has not only survived it but quite likely lived through it without ever having to face the carnage that raged in all directions around it. There are no omnics here, either, but Hanzo knows that this isn’t the case throughout the year. A few reside through the winter months in the monastery he’s headed for, amongst other monks; at this time of the year however, only a select few occupy it in search of silence and solitude, and even those often scatter from the monastery itself to look for purpose in the small towns surrounding it. If there are still others in there now, then for their sake, Hanzo hopes that they’ll be sleeping through the night - he’s only there for one.

The bright orange of sunset paints shadows over the monastery’s white walls. In front of it, a stone monument rises like a miniature of the mountain its foundations stand upon, and strings of worn prayer flags connect to it, each of them calmly wavering in the restless winds. Those seem the only spots of colour this high up, and time has worn most of them out almost entirely. Hanzo lifts his hand and runs his fingers along the shape of one flag as he passes underneath it, but his eyes are upon the buildings clinging to the slope and the walkways that hang above a steep fall down. In front of the monastery, there’s a sizeable open area with benches and even a bike resting against the building’s wall, but where the buildings end on the side, the slope turns steep and deadly underneath them. Hanzo walks to the wall’s corner first and leans towards the edge. The distance is so large that he can feel his vision struggling with the immense depth, and he breathes in a long breath, the air crisp even in the summer months this close to the peak. His hand presses against the monastery’s wall and he finds it still warm to touch - the stone has stood under stark sunlight for most of the day, and despite its white colour, it still soaks up the heat. A small huff escapes him as he presses up against the wall and bounces up; he grabs a ledge and pulls himself onto it, then pushes open a wooden window and slips inside with ease. The room is small and ascetic, but there are a few hand-carved wooden animals on the small table next to the mattress on the floor, and all in all, despite the feeling of loneliness that lingers thick in the air, it’s clear that this room much like the monastery itself isn’t as abandoned as it seems. Right now, however, it’s empty - and so are the other rooms.

As the sun moves down behind another peak, Hanzo settles beside the front door, his back resting against the warm white stone behind him, and he waits.

 

* * *

 

In the glow of moonlight, a figure finally appears at the end of the path. Hanzo watches his shape grow with steady, calm footsteps: it shifts something inside him to see a kimono this far away from home, but he stifles the feeling as soon as it appears, and his mind grows quiet again. Instead, he focuses his vision upon the metallic hands that peek from underneath the sleeves, and the glow of the visor in the mask that covers up the cyborg’s face from view. He notices the exact moment the man spots him by the doorway: there’s an ever so slight change in his pace as he walks, in his posture, and the smallest movement of his fingers, as if a memory from days when he might have reached for a blade in self-defense. Then he carries on as if nothing had changed, and soon enough, they’re at close enough range to speak.

”Good evening, brother,” the cyborg says in a quiet, unreadable tone, ”You are the last person I would have expected to see here tonight.”

Hanzo nods. He pushes himself off the wall and for a while, they stand before one another, Sparrow’s vision hidden from Hanzo but quite likely taking measure of him just as he’s doing in return. Then, with a shudder, the cyborg pushes onwards and brings his arms around Hanzo. He closes his eyes and leans against the touch, something so painful and hard constricting at his chest that for a moment, he’s not sure if he’ll live through the embrace. His hands shake as he brings them around the cyborg’s body, the soft fabric of his kimono bending submissively against the roughness of his grip before he reaches the collar of it, fingers briefly brushing over the artificial spine growing out of Sparrow’s back.

When they part, Sparrow’s fingers move down along Hanzo’s sleeve and tug at it as he nods towards the doorway.

”I don’t have much,” he says, ”but I’ve got some green tea you might enjoy this far from home. Come inside - sit with me.”

”Thank you.”

The eerie music of the wind chimes follows quietly as they enter the monastery together. A worn leather bag hangs over Sparrow’s shoulder; it’s decorated with colourful strips of leather that swing as he moves, and Hanzo’s eyes catch onto them as the younger man slides it down his arm and picks out a box of matches from within. The box is cardboard, but it’s skillfully decorated with painted shapes, and so are the matches inside it. Sparrow lights one and the flame catches onto a candle set on the wall. They make their way through the dark monastery that way until they reach a tea room with a single low table and a few pillows sitting around it in its middle.

”You can take a seat,” Sparrow tells Hanzo as he moves along to the next candle, ”I will take care of the rest. After that, I hope that we can catch up.”

Hanzo nods again. He moves to the middle of the room and chooses the pillow between a solid wall and the table. With a small sigh, he pulls off his bow from around his body and settles on the pillow on his knees, the metallic shapes of his footwear pressing against his thighs through his hakama like round rocks on a river’s bank, hard but smooth underneath his weight. He places his bow on the uneven floor decorated with a thin red and white carpet. It takes him a moment to realise that from underneath the table, the distinctive shape of a green dragon peers back at him, its curving body and grimacing head woven into the carpet with skill. His eyes lift back up to Sparrow, who’s now joined him by the table. The cyborg places his bag next to the pillow opposite from Hanzo’s, and with a sigh much like the one Hanzo let out, he reaches to undo his mask. The visor deattaches with a clear sound: behind it, the scarred face is much the same as Hanzo remembers it from years ago. He can’t take his eyes off of the dark ones that look back at him, a hint of red reflecting through the pupils when the light from the candles hits them from the right angle.

”Are you comfortable, brother?” Sparrow asks him; ”If it gets too cold, I will light a fire for us; it is never quite as warm here as it is at lower altitudes, not even in the summer, but on the other hand, you are quite well-dressed for the climate.”

”There won’t be a need for that,” Hanzo tells him shortly, and he nods.

”Then I will see that we get a warm drink, at least. I will be back in a few moments; make yourself at home.”

He bows shortly before leaving the room, as if Hanzo was any guest in his house. After him, a near perfect silence falls instead. Only the sounds of the wind chimes outside still carry through the walls. It seems a good place to come for quiet; truly, there is nothing else here. Sparrow isn’t wrong: the room is cool, and although he promised to light a fire if there would be a need for it, Hanzo doesn’t see a fireplace. His eyes turn next towards the walls: they’re all painted much like the matchbox in Sparrow’s bag, just as colourful and bright and decorative as that simple object that required no such care and attention. Here, that same patient, skilled work has a better purpose, but in the dim light of the candles, it’s still hard to make out what exactly the paintings depict. The shades of gold, red and green repeat boldly over the walls, joined in by the deep blue of a night’s sky which almost everywhere now looks black instead. Slowly, Hanzo lowers his gaze back to the dark wood table, and the single candle set in the middle of it. His hand still seems to shake a little when he picks up the matchbox and lights a match from it, then presses the flame against that candle’s heart. He watches the fire catch onto it before retreating the match and blowing the fire out from its tip, but after it’s used, he stills for a while to watch the rainbow pattern over the remaining part of it. It’s not painted with any particular care, but the fact alone that it is painted - who would put such effort into decorating a simple match? In his hands, he turns around the matchbox, holding it against the candle’s light to see the detail better. There is no theme to it, only the harmony of colours layered one over the other in intricate patterns.

”Do you like it?” Sparrow’s voice asks him, stirring him from his thoughts; he didn’t hear him returning.

Carefully, he places the matchbox back on the table.

”Art is an excellent challenge for cybernetic hands. It takes practice to master the finer movements, but I suppose the same goes for any pair.”

”You’ve painted it?” Hanzo asks him, a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

Sparrow nods. He brings the tea pot to the table and lands a mug before Hanzo first, then another on his side of the table before sitting down.

”I have a lot of time here,” he says with a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, ”and it helps me think. Of course, I cannot come here as often as I’d want to anymore. I am quite busy these days - many people want to hear my message. Mine, and my mentor’s. But you’re not here for that, are you, brother?”

”No.”

”Very well.”

Sparrow picks up the pot and holds it over Hanzo’s mug. He looks him in the eye as he pours the tea, then lowers his gaze when he fills his own. With another sigh, he places the pot back in the middle of the table beside the small candle.

”Ah, it’s been years. Much has changed for us both,” Sparrow says then.  
He wraps a hand around his mug but doesn’t drink, and Hanzo does the same. The warmth charges up through his veins all the way up to his shoulder, as if his arm was submerged in water.  
”I have many questions I’ve wanted to ask you, and I feared I’d never have the chance. But I want you to begin, as you are the guest and I am the host. So if there is anything you’d wish to know, please ask me; I will try to answer to my best ability.”

”How did you end up here?” Hanzo asks him.

”In Nepal?”

Hanzo nods.

”It is a very long story, brother. It would take most of the night to answer it properly. Do you know of my master, Zenyatta?”

”I read of his passing during the war,” Hanzo tells him, ”You have my condolences for your loss.”

Slowly, Sparrow nods. He lifts his mug and sips the drink, then lowers it back down upon the table.  
”I owe him everything. In fact, I suppose that is the answer to your question - Zenyatta is what first brought me here, and it is because of him and his wisdom that I made this place my home. His death is why I returned; I felt it was my duty to carry on his work where I could. He taught the most crucial lesson of our time - the unity between men and machines - and as I am a unique bridge between these two worlds, it seemed fitting that I would use my gift to try and bring us all closer together. Isn’t it ironic, Hanzo, that a world of death would birth me, and yet at the end of my path, I would fight unarmed for life instead?”

Hanzo lifts his mug. He closes his eyes, and behind his lids, he can still see the battleground - the bleeding men, the shreds and pieces of men no longer bleeding, and the frontline of dark metal against the horizon. The sound of a shot passing his right ear makes him flinch, and he opens his eyes again. Sparrow’s watching him.

”You, on the other hand... you were bred for death, and that is what you’ve devoted your life to, isn’t it, big brother. You fought in the war, too.”

”I served my country when it needed me.”

”You did - and I wonder, how many still ostracized you for your tattoos?”

”What others thought of me mattered little. I provided the skills that I had, nothing more and nothing less than that, and I fought and I lived and many others died, regardless of our opinions of one another.”

”War is madness.”

Hanzo sips his tea again. After Sparrow’s done the same, Hanzo lifts his gaze to him again.

”Why did you change your name back to that silly thing our father used to call you by?” he asks.

This gets a soft chuckle out of Sparrow, and his smile lingers after the sound dies.  
”I am fond of it,” he says, ”and in my many hours of reflection, I have come to embrace both what I am now as well as what I was before. After all, without my past, what would remain of me? I am very little but a product of my history. It seemed fitting that after years of rejecting one or both of these things, I would return to my foundations and finally merge them together with my present. Only this way, I can be whole. Genji was the name of a man who never quite knew where he belonged; Sparrow is the one who always had a home somewhere. I know where I belong now. What about you, Hanzo? Did you ever find a home for yourself after all?”

”I have somewhere to return to. I do not know whether to call it my home.”

”What about love?” Sparrow asks, lifting his mug to his lips again.

”My life has no room for such things.”

”It must be a lonely life, then. But in the strictest terms, I haven’t had much success with romance either. I find love in and through other things; mainly the connections I have with my friends, my students and this world. I’ve realised I’m quite uninterested in pursuing a more traditional path. Yet... I was hoping it would be different for you. I always thought you would find happiness with a woman as quiet and serious as you are. It would have made for great family dinners, and a nightmare for the kids.”

”I used to think that was your path.”

”My wife would have been very talkative and quite inappropriate. We would have made fart jokes over family dinners, and forgotten the curfews of our children. When I think of her, I miss her, but that is not the way my life was meant to be lived.”

Sparrow places his mug on the table and seems distracted for a moment: he slips his hand into his bag and pulls out his phone, flashing an apologetic smile towards Hanzo.

”I must make an arrangement,” he tells him, ”It will take only a few moments.”

Hanzo nods. He watches the decorated walls while Sparrow writes, and for a while, the silence of the Himalayas becomes overpowering once more. Then, the phone slides back inside the bag, and Sparrow’s gaze returns towards him.

”I’m sorry. I didn’t know how much longer I could delay doing that. It would haunt me to my grave if I missed the chance, but it seemed impolite to stop our conversation for it. Now it is done and we can continue; I’d like to know if you still hold a memorial for me each year, Hanzo.”

Hanzo lowers his gaze. For a while, he looks into his mug - the surface of his drink has dropped to below half-way, but its colour is still a pleasant dark-tinted green. Finally, he nods, and Sparrow lets out a warm huff.

”Why are you hosting a funeral for someone who hasn’t died yet?”

”A bad habit, perhaps.”

”Ah, you’re doing it again, blocking me out. Be honest with me this one time, brother; it is all I ask of you.”

Their eyes meet, and a flash of annoyance crosses Hanzo’s expression. Sparrow seems to not mind it - his smile never wavers. Then, finally, Hanzo sighs and looks away.

”Maybe you did not die that night,” he says, ”but many other things did. It is the only way I can grieve for them - for what could and should have been but never was, and for the things that we both lost, for everything that changed and could never be rebuilt.”

”You don’t want my advice, but I suggest that you finally let this go, brother. It has been thirty years since that night - do not waste more of your life mourning something that has been dead and gone for a generation. It is time to heal.”

”It is too late for me.”

”Only if you let it be. I have faith in you, Hanzo. I believe that you can still find purpose and peace.”

Hanzo grunts. He picks up his mug and drinks until there’s no more than a drop at the bottom of his mug. Sparrow watches him as he lowers his mug back on the table, then takes his own and empties it just the same.

”It is almost morning,” he says then, ”Dawn is breaking. I was given the gift of prayer flags yesterday at my meeting, and I would like to hang them now before the sun rises, if that is alright with you.”

”I should take my leave as well.”

Sparrow nods. He reaches into his bag and brings out a cloth pouch from within, and in silence, he pulls out of it a folded rope of prayer flags before finally standing up. Hanzo follows suit: when they end up on the same side of the table, Sparrow smiles at him again and steps closer.

”I’ve missed you, Hanzo,” he says, and Hanzo can see the tears lining his eyes, ”It was good to see you again.”

Hanzo looks away when the distance between them closes up again, but this time, he doesn’t hesitate lifting his hand over Sparrow’s back in return. His other hand’s grip over the bow grows for a moment, and when the embrace breaks, he brings it around his back without a word. For a moment, Sparrow keeps looking at him, and his expression seems torn between happiness and sadness and something else - quietly, Hanzo watches him in return, his eyes tracing the scars on his face. It makes his stomach turn a little to realise that he can remember cutting each of them into him, but that memory fades into a dull nothingness soon enough. He glances back at the window, and true enough, the sky above the mountains has grown lighter already. Sparrow’s hand touches the side of his arm before he turns and starts walking towards the doorway, and Hanzo follows him, each step mechanical and stiff. He breathes in deep, counts the passing of time, and lets out the exhale as the door facing the path away from here opens up before him. The early morning’s dim blue light frames Sparrow’s shape there as he steps out, the prayer flags spread between his hands. He walks forwards, but Hanzo stops in the doorway.

He breathes in again, the sound of his brother’s footsteps against the ground sharp in his ears. His hand moves quietly to his bow, and he exhales, pulling it over his shoulder and adjusting his hand over the grip. The mountain air is cold now; it feels bitter like smoke when he inhales, lifting the bow.

The blue light shimmers over the metal in Genji’s neck as he keeps walking, one hand hanging loosely at his side with a loop of the rope and a few colourful flags in its grip, one still lifted to the height of his ribs. The bow's string makes no sound as Hanzo sets an arrow against it and pulls it back.

His exhale clouds up a short distance ahead of him, the warmth and moisture in it dispersing into the night. His ears pick up the soft sound of the arrow splitting the air, and then the metallic crack of its head burying between the artificial vertebrae. For a moment, his brother stands still. The rope in his hands slips and falls before he does, and Hanzo watches it happen with his weapon lowered and his heartbeat oddly uneven. Another exhale, the inhale of which he can’t recall, clouds up his vision as Sparrow’s knees give in underneath his weight and he crashes into the dirt. It’s a graceful fall, as if practiced - Hanzo’s body responds to it, pushing his feet forwards and onto the path. The sounds of the wind chimes fall behind him as he moves closer to the body, bends down and pulls out the arrow from Sparrow’s broken neck; there’s hardly any blood on it, which he wipes to his sleeve as he keeps walking.

The first rays of sunlight peek over the mountains as he heads down the path towards the village.

 

* * *

 

_Message sent from Comms Device to Temporary Recipient (no ID), 2096/07/25 07:18  
__Content:_ [I have fulfilled the terms of our contract.]

> _Message received to Comms Device from Temporary Sender (no ID), 2096/07/25 07:23  
__Content:_ [Pleased to hear this, my friend. Forgive me if I await for confirmation before fulfilling my end; my connections require me to guarantee our investments.]

>> _Message sent from Comms Device to Temporary Recipient (no ID), 2096/07/25 07:30  
__Content:_ [You will have it.]

_Scheduled message received to Comms Device from Locally Connected Device (ID: Shimada Genji), sent: 2096/07/25 04:38, received: 2096/07/25 08:00  
__Content:_ [The moment I saw you standing by the door was the happiest I’ve been in years, even though I knew that it meant my life would be over before I would see the sun rise. I hope that I got the chance to tell you this, but I have missed you, brother, more than you can imagine. I wished so much that you would be brave enough to follow me into the light, and the years that have passed since without a word from you have been torture for me, not because I did not love the life that I lived but because I knew that you hated your own and I could do nothing more to help you. I want you to know that I still forgive you, even for this, and that I chose to die by your hand tonight. I have lived a good life, one that was well worth the pain and misery along the way, and now I want you to go and have that for yourself. Perhaps ending this chapter in your life will make a difference - if so, then this has been all I could ask for. Know that I died loving you as deeply as I did when we were younger, and that wherever I will head next, I will continue doing so until the day we meet again. I hope that in that place, we can finally live a life together.]

_> Error sending message: Locally Connected Device has disconnected from the network. Retry?_

 


End file.
